


live it up, drink it in

by puny



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, no one parties harder than seijou, no one.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 08:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4781153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puny/pseuds/puny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hanamaki's not a detective, just a wing spiker with a hangover, but he's gonna figure out who gave him all these hickeys if it damn well <i>kills him.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	live it up, drink it in

Hanamaki wakes up into a world of regret. 

His brain feels twelve sizes too large for his skull. His eyelids stick to his eyeballs when he tries to open them. His mouth tastes like stale sewage, which he thinks is bad, but then he smells a whiff of his breath and almost dry heaves and the stomach acid makes his mouth taste even worse and in conclusion he's having the worst morning of his entire seventeen years of life on planet Earth. Again.

"No more parties," he mutters, and drags himself out of the bed. It's a nice bed. Someone else's. From the decor, he's guessing spare room. He feels bad for befouling it with how disgusting he is right now. The clock on the bedside table is analog, which means it takes like a full four minutes for him to figure out what it says. When he does he swears up a goddamn storm because it's a _school morning_ and how could they have been so _stupid._

When he opens the door it hits something. Kindaichi's sleeping in the middle of the hallway, head pillowed on a pair of slippers. Poor kid. 

"No more parties," Hanamaki says to his snoring form. "Ever." 

He manages not to fall down the stairwell and break his face, following the sound of someone cooking. He already knows who it is and braces himself as he enters the kitchen. 

The setter doesn't have the gall to act even slightly hungover. His hair is perfect. He's humming, making mickey mouse pancakes, and somehow managing to look completely unbothered by the total destruction of his house. To his credit, there's a bunch of cups of water he's lined up on the counter, probably one for each of them. Hanamaki chugs three. 

"Oikawa, what in the hell happened last night?" His voice sounds like he's been eating scrap metal. 

When Oikawa sees him, his eyes go wide with shock and he freezes mid-pancake flip. "I... I'm sorry, Makki." 

"What?" He asks, disgruntled. 

"I haven't protected your virtue," he says, reeling dramatically and putting the back of his hand to his forehead like an old opera star. "Sweet Makki is sullied! My pure, precious wing spiker! Oh, however will we find you a husband now?" 

"What the fuck, Oikawa?" He is way too hungover to deal with his asshole captain. 

Oikawa smirks. "There's a mirror in the hall," he says, pointing. 

Hanamaki takes that as his cue to get the fuck out of there, stopping in front of the long decorative hall mirror. He doesn't understand why Oikawa mentioned it. Maybe because he looks so gross and hungover, eyes bloodshot and neck bruis–

Oh, fuck. 

He clamps a hand over his neck. Okay, cool, he's covered in hickeys, whatever. It happens. All the time. Especially to an attractive young thing like himself. 

God damn it.

Priority one is get the fuck out of there. He tiptoes into the living room, grabbing an Aobajohsai jacket at random and hoping it's his own, and tucks it over his shoulders praying it looks casual. 

He doesn't exactly have much to worry about. Everyone's still asleep, peacefully dozing through what will be a blistering headache once they wake up. Kaneo and Yahaba are on the couch, feet tickling each others' chins. The bottom half of Watari is sticking out of a collapsed pillow fort. There's a cherry red high heel on one of his feet. Kyotani's on the floor, naked except for a pair of basketball shorts and a sleeping scowl, with someone's head pillowed on the back of his leg. There's some other people he doesn't recognize. It looks like a battlefield the day after, sticky 40-proof puddles drying on every surface, but this isn't his first rodeo. Hanamaki picks his way through the bodies. He doesn't know what all that black shit on Kyotani's back is, or why the skin around it looks scraped-up and red, but he firmly hopes not to find out. 

Just as he's opening the front door, Iwazumi comes stumbling down the stairs, head in his hands, looking for all the world like he's going to headbutt someone through a wall if they so much as bat an eyelash in his direction. Hanamaki would bet a pretty penny he'd passed out up in Oikawa's room. (He actually has bet on it, he realizes, and makes a mental note to collect from Mattsun later.) 

"Hey, Iwazumi," he chirps, because he's curious and because he likes to play with death. "You wouldn't have any idea what I, uh, did last night, would you?" 

"Oh, I know what you did," Iwazumi says and fixes him with a glare. 

_Shit,_ he thinks, but then Iwazumi continues: "You took the alcohol I told you to hide from Oikawa and spiked the punch with it." 

Oh. Whew. Iwazumi knew nothing about the hickies, just about a little harmless poisoning. "Oh, that," he says, waving a hand. "Oikawa told me to do that beforehand. He hid the booze where he knew you'd find it." 

Iwazumi looks positively murderous. Hanamaki gets the hell out of there so he won't have to give testimony later as a witness of Oikawa's death. 

-

He slides into his seat in math class the very second the bell stops screeching. Classmates all around him are snickering at the way he's panting and disheveled. He probably looks the way he feels: like several dozen pro wrestlers have used him as a doormat. 

A pen cap lands on his desk. He looks three seats over at Matsukawa, who smiles a little like the dick he is. Hanamaki grimaces at him. 

Matsukawa raises his eyebrows questioningly, pointing at his own neck. Hanamaki winces; he'd thrown a scarf over himself to cover the evidence, but it probably looked totally out of place in late spring. 

SICK, he writes in fat letters on a page of his notebook, holding it up. Matsukawa gives him a weird look, kind of amused. 

Whatever, screw him. He manages to pass off a hangover as tiredness better than anyone Hanamaki knows, since mussed and half-asleep is Matsukawa's default appearance anyway. 

He turns back to his notebook. He'll figure this out. He writes TIMELINE at the top of the page; under it, 7:00 – ARRIVED AT PARTY. 

Then what? 

Hmm. He remembers some boring conversations, the type you always get at the beginning of any party no matter how wild it ends up. He remembers Kindaichi choking on a Dorito. He remembers beer pong, Seijoh style, Yahaba setting a ping-pong ball into the air and Kunimi spiking it hard into a red solo cup and whooping like it was a set point. He remembers Matsukawa giving him a piggyback ride, slamming his head agonizingly into two different doorframes. He remembers plying Iwazumi with no less than three screwdrivers and _still_ losing to him at arm-wrestling. He remembers flashes of a long string of increasingly stupid dares that culminated in everyone trying to figure out how to fit Oikawa into the washing machine. He remembers Oikawa clambering on top of a table, hoisting a near-empty bottle of something in the air. "There's no team like the Seijoh team," he'd declared, drunkenly, passionately, _"and, damn it, there's no party like a Seijoh party."_ There was cheering. 

After that... darkness. 

Frustrated, he crosses out TIMELINE and writes SUSPECTS next to it. 

Okay. Who could he have made out with? Who would be willing to, with him? There were a couple of girls at the party, but mostly they had come for Oikawa, and at any rate none had stayed the night. There were quite a few people he knew a little, schoolmates he'd seen in the hallways, and a couple he didn't know at all, friends of friends of friends. Probably one of them. He crosses SUSPECTS out too, crabby. He isn't super upset, he'd just like to know who had gotten all up in his business last night. 

Oh well. He pillows his head on his arms, knowing Hamasaki-sensei had given up on yelling at him by now, and falls asleep. 

-

When he enters the clubroom everyone's clustered and making noise at once, and for a single irrational moment he thinks they're gossiping about him. Then he notices everyone's clustered around Kyotani, who is (once again) shirtless, lip curled at the racket everyone's making. Iwazumi's looking more thunderous than usual. 

"Yo, what," Hanamaki says, and Oikawa's yelling something at him about a tattoo and juvenile delinquency and the evils of drink. 

He gets the full story a couple minutes later, after a whole lot of confusion. At some point last night, somehow, Yahaba had given Kyotani a homemade tattoo of a volleyball on his shoulderblade, using only a pencil, a needle, some electrical tape, and a bottle of india ink. It's actually pretty decent, when he gets a closer look. Hanamaki wouldn't have believed it was done by someone completely hammered. The lines of the ball are perfect, and there's flames coming off one side of it. 

"Cool," he says, poking at the reddened skin. "Do me next." 

Kyotani pretty quickly gets fed up with everyone touching him and breaks a window by throwing a chair at it. Iwazumi puts him in a headlock. Oikawa, looking like he's on the verge of tears, cancels practice. Hanamaki loves this club. 

\- 

"Hey," he says, catching up to Kindaichi in the hallway after the show's died down and everyone's dispersed. It was the poor guy's first Seijoh party and probably his first hangover, and with Iwazumi busy tackling the bulldog, Hanamaki's guessing no one's checked to see if he's all right. 

Kindaichi sees him, turns bright red, babbles something, and tried to run off. 

Huh. Strange. Hanamaki grabs the back of his jacket, wheels him round, and stares him down. 

"Hey," he says again, more meaningfully. "Is there a problem?" 

"No," his kouhai squeaks, "no, everything's fine, I'm late to–" 

"No you're not," he stares, putting as much seniority in his voice as he knows how. He has a feeling he knows what this is about. Kindaichi had been right outside the spare room, after all. "Did you see anything last night I should know about? Anyone going into a spare room with me, for instance?" 

Turnip head squirms in his grip. "HesaidtosaytocheckyourtextsifIsawyou."

"Eh?" 

"CHECK YOUR PHONE," he shouts, panicked, and twists away, leaving Hanamaki clutching the white blazer of his uniform. 

Weird. Hanamaki drapes the jacket over a passing first-year and fishes his phone out of his pocket. He'd forgotten about it in all the chaos. It seems to take forever to boot up, but the second he puts his passcode in, he knows. 

-

He takes the stairs up to the roof slowly, feeling weirdly calm. He doesn't know why this feels like the best possible outcome, but it does, and he thinks about all the stupid shit they've done together, over the years; all the times they've given up the night before a big test and gone out for celebratory pre-failure dinners, all the dumb jokes they've rehearsed beforehand to piss off Oikawa or Iwazumi or both, all the bus rides to matches when they've spitballed first-years and all the rides back when they've fallen asleep on each other's laps. They've talked about girls. They've practiced pickup lines on each other, for Chrissakes. 

It makes sense, somehow, major sense, perfect, cosmic logic, like someone had just repeated a riddle he'd once heard years ago and suddenly, finally, he gets it. 

He pushes open the door at the top of the stairwell. It's an unreasonably nice day, bright without being hot, breezy and blue. He can feel the last of his headache dissipating as he spies Matsukawa, laying on the roof with a comic book open on his face. Probably got tired from the sun and dozed off reading it. 

"Good morniiiing," Hanamaki croons, squatting by his head and lifting the book up. 

Matsukawa blinks up at him, smiling a little. "Should you be up here? It'll make you more sick." 

"'S your fault I had to fake it." 

Matsukawa hums happily, sitting up. "I see you got your memories back." 

"Actually, no." Hanamaki's already eyeing his neck, planning some revenge hickies. "Wanna make some more?" 

Mattsun laces his hands around the back of Hanamaki's neck and leans in. He ignores the rumble in his gut telling him all he's had to eat today is water and half a donut. He forgets that he'll have to wear a scarf or something for a week straight. It doesn't even bother him that they could've been doing this for years because it's so stupidly, spinningly wonderful to have his best friend's tongue in his mouth, his favorite person in the world bar none, that he melts into it and forgets about everything except Mattsun. 

-

He keeps the phone background, too. It's a selfie Issei took in the guest bed, of himself grinning and winking over the shoulder of a drooling, slack-faced Hanamaki. It's absurd and embarrassing and deeply unflattering. He's _never_ gonna change it.

**Author's Note:**

> *wipes sweat off forehead* 
> 
> i whipped this out tonight pls tell me if theres any glaring errors
> 
> i just couldn't stop thinking about the seijoh guys having a reputation for huge ridiculous house parties that Ushijima isn't invited to lmao


End file.
